Saturday, September 28, 2013

I’ve
been in the park across the street late on a Friday night before with my Lab
and a glass of creamy, red wine discreetly hidden in a coffee mug. Sometimes by
myself, sometimes not.

It’s
big with a mile-long walkway weaving through it. It's "alive” during the day. At
night, though, everything comes to a rest. You can hear the breeze blowing
through tall, prairie grasses the elementary school children tend and the arcs
of pond fountains spraying through floodlit beams.

Last
night after my friends left, close to 10:00, we both needed a walk to clear
our heads. Grabbing the last of the wine, we headed across.

At the far end of the park, the tennis and basketball
courts were bathed in light and little specs were running around. As we got closer, we
could discern the figures.

Two
sets of daddy/daughters.

My
heart leapt as it often does when seeing this combination of parent/child. Something
about it warms me from the inside out.

We
paused to watch for a while.

The
little girl on the far side of the tennis court was 5 or 6 years old. Neon
green balls, probably 100 of them, littered the court. Her daddy hit them to
her, one after another after another after another. And she returned them with
ease and amazing precision for her age. Some sliced directly into the net but
most balls closely cleared its top edge for a “winning shot”. They were not
speaking, just stroking the balls back and forth.

The
young girl standing on the basketball free-throw line was close to 10 years old. She was
tall and lanky, all arms and legs. It was obvious she took after her daddy, who
was planted directly under the basket. She rapidly rifled off balls, playing
with two at a time, almost faster than he could pass them back. They’d break every
minute or two for what I understood to be a critiquing of her efforts. She’d
just nod and begin again.

It
was lovely, at first, being a spectator for their shared time together but it left me
feeling unsettled as well. It didn’t seem playful or fun, but regimented,
drill-like, pressure-filled, at least to me. It seemed too late at night for this. (Not that my thoughts or
opinions on the matter actually…matter.)

Walking
away, I heard one daddy ask, “Are you done or do you want more?”

“I want more,” the little tennis phenom replied.

My
heart felt a little lighter as I walked home after hearing her reply.

*************************

To
my fellow “Moonshiners” over at Yeah Write, I apologize in advance for the
probability that this weekend’s visits to your posts may not happen in a timely
fashion. I need to get on a plane in a few hours. Arriverderci!!!

My
husband’s concern for us was tender and sweet. Slightly smothering at times but
I felt very much loved and cared for and even more so when I was pregnant.

He is
a worrier. Not a risk taker. He is practical.

So
asking if we (he, me and baby bump) could accompany some out-of-town friends to
a concert that weekend was pushing the envelope for him.

“It’s
free fun! And they have kick butt seats,” I added, thinking it would sex up the
deal since disposable income didn't exist.

He didn’t
buy it. His list of reasons was a mile long for why we shouldn’t put our baby
or me at risk in a crowd of 50,000 people.

“What
happens if you get bumped or pushed or fell? I don’t like it. At all.”

“You’re
right, Honey,” I said, head hung low.

When
you’re 8 months, 1 week pregnant, there aren’t a lot of things you can
physically do, or feel like doing, or are excited to do. To say I wasn’t
severely disappointed would be lying.

My girlfriend
suggested retail therapy.

“It
always works!”

So
we headed to Michigan Avenue and Water Tower Place.

And
that’s when the skies opened up and a beaming glow from up above shined down on me.

Okay.
Not really, but the tables turned, for sure.

“Dr.
Fitzmaurice! Hiiiii! What are you doing in the city?” I asked, feeling a little
bit busted for some reason, running into my baby doctor in downtown Chicago.

“Hanging
out for the weekend. What are you doing in the city?”

(Dr.
Fitzmaurice: approximately 37 years old, youngest member of the OBGYN practice,
apparently hip.)

“This
is my childhood friend, Cristina. We were hoping to go to a concert tonight at
Solider Field.”

“The
Grateful Dead! That’s so cool! What do you mean hoping?”

“My
husband…”

“I’ve
met him.”

“Well,
he’s having a problem with me attending because I’m due so soon. He’s heard they
squirt acid or LSD from water bottles at people walking by. And, of course,
people smoking dope. He thinks drugs will get into my system and put the baby
at risk. We’re sitting in the sound booth area, away from the crowd, so all we
really have to do is get inside!”

“Just
a second,” he said.

Grabbing
his wallet from the back pocket of stylish jeans, he removed a business card. Began
writing.

“I
give Gina permission to attend the Grateful Dead concert tonight at Solider
Field. The wellbeing of your baby will not be at risk if she is squirt with
water. Also, there is little chance she will hallucinate, much to her possible
dismay. Bill”

“This
is outstanding!” I hugged him.

“If
he has a problem, tell him to call me. Hey, do you have any extra tickets?”

(Dr.
Fitzmaurice: approximately 37 years old, youngest member of the OBGYN practice,
totally
hip)

I
left the mall with a spring in my step as we walked back to my friend’s hotel. I
had a permission slip! Na, na, na, na, na, nah!!!!!

“And
I DID NOT forge this,” I said as I gleefully presented the card to my husband.

On the Camino de Santiago de Compostella (the 500 mile pilgrimage I completely this summer),
it is believed that we carry a stone with us (usually from home) and all our losses, sins, pain, sorrows,
weaknesses, insecurities, unanswered prayers, etc., are symbolically embedded
within it during our walk. By leaving it behind at La Cruz de Ferro, we shed
those things we no longer need to "carry" through life.

This weekend's Trifextra comes to us courtesy of MOV. They want us to give them a 33-word time travel story. They
would love it if we would title it with the year/date that we choose.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

I’m
betting within less than a minute reading this post, you will ask this question.

“Gina!
Why the hell did you go on a Saturday?”

So
I should start there.

I
went to the mall on a Saturday afternoon for four primary reasons:

1.It’s a gorgeous day in the Chicagoland
area, full of bright sunshine, not too warm or cold, just right! My mall is the
outdoor type with flowers, fountains, and all the pretty stuff.

2.I had time to kill. And
since I’m not much of a group shopper especially if I’m shopping for myself, it
seemed like the perfect time because I was by myself.

3.I despise the current
contents of my closet. I’m not pleased with my choices, but it is my fault for
that. I haven’t been to the mall, or shopping in any form for that matter, in
four months. I dislike everything I have from the last few years.

4.I have a date tonight and I would
like to look nice.

What
I quickly remembered about the whole driving there, shopping around, and driving home is I don’t like to go to the mall at all, especially on weekends.

And
I’m not sure if my annoyance with the mall today is because I’m getting older,
less patient, or I’m in a crabby mood. Probably all three.

The
parking lot was a disaster because everyone (along with their sisters, brothers, cousins, etc.) was there. No parking spaces were available
and I don’t mean the ones near a door either. There were cars lined up two
deep, in each row, blocking passage for the rest of us. Annoyed, I circled and
circled and circled before I scored my way far away spot.

Arriving
into the interior of the mall is where the real fun began!

Three
things here annoyed me (but, of course, there were plenty more).

People
don’t use manners (could be post on its own). This bothers me immensely because I
think I’m exceptionally polite. I use “please” and “thank you” obsessively. And I notice when other people are too ("See, honey, that lady/kid/daddy used good manners."). If
I see you coming from a few feet behind, I will wait for you to get there holding the door open so it doesn’t slam in your face because I’m nice.
And many of you didn't even bat an eye or spare a second to squeak out “Thank you”. That’s just
rude.

Most
weekend shoppers are browsers. They take up all the fitting rooms by trying on
too many things, walk together in packs blocking racks, and talk far too loudly.
It is not the same for the lone shoppers who tend to be on a mission. We aren’t
there for fun. We are there to purchase, then leave. So when you are gregariously strolling through stores, please
remember your spatial awareness (where your body is in relation to mine). I am not
fond of strangers encroaching on my personal space or running directly into me
and maybe, or not, saying “excuse me” or “sorry”. Sometimes I think I’m
invisible. Additionally, your perfume should be smellable to you, the people
in your personal space, but not stuffing the nostrils of the rest of us who are
five or more feet away.

Nothing
fit the way I wanted.

I
didn’t leave empty-handed though, so that cheered me up until I decided to stop
at the grocery store on my way home at 4:30pm on a Saturday.

I may
be getting older and less patient but I am definitely crabby. And I need to get out of this mood because I have a DATE tonight!!!!!

This weekend Trifecta is taking us, once again, back to school
for a lesson in literary devices. Remember the apostrophe? About.com
defines apostrophe as, "A figure of speech in which some absent or
nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of
understanding." We are to
provide 33-word example of an apostrophe.

Monday, September 9, 2013

My
friend came from a large Italian/Irish family with six kids. They didn’t have nearly
enough nickels to rub and were squeezed into a seriously small flat in
Queens, New York. He said life was chaotic in their household.

His
mother was gregarious, the life of every party, and Irish. She laughed, danced and told a great joke.

His
father was soberly reserved and unemotional. A man who gave his son $100, shook
his hand and wished him good luck as he drove himself to college in Milwaukee.

Both
have been gone since long before I even knew him.

He said
one of his sisters recently found a box of old letters. Love letters between his parents.

One
letter stood out as special. Completely unexpected. There wasn’t enough opportunity, he explained, for outward displays of affection amidst the constant comings and goings of his family. It was dated after all six children were born.

The
small block print of this letter told a different story. It detailed the deep love
and desire a soberly stoic man had for his beautifully extroverted wife. Even
then. During the frustration, disorder and confusion they called daily life.

As
he shared more about the letters with me, I saw happiness radiating from him. And
the romantic in me was intoxicated. I am in love with love letters.

His
story immediately got me thinking of how exciting it would be for our children to stumble upon such private
sentiments of love between their father and mother after we are gone. Words documenting our
feelings for each other during decades of marriage. There
are plenty of them.

But
then I remembered there were other
letters out there too.

Letters
that were not between him and me but between me and someone else; someone who once
held a special place in my heart. These letters, I sent to my best friend over
twenty-five years ago asking her to keep them safely tucked away because I wasn’t ready yet to terminate their existence.

What
if they resurfaced someday?

What
if we are, all three of us, gone and they find their way back to our children’s
hands?

What
if? What if? What if?

A
sense of panic washed over me.

That’s
not what I want.

I
want them to unexpectedly discover our love notes when they are parents
themselves. To understand even though we seemed stressed out more often than
not, we were very much in love. Even though we argued (mainly) over parenting
and especially when they were in high school, we loved each other no less. To realize
no love is perfect, but still beautiful nonetheless. Their father and mother
had a romantic love that sustained a half-century or more. To feel intoxicated and
proud in this knowledge.

That’s what I want.

I’ve
never asked her if she still has those old letters; if she’s ever
read them (and I wouldn’t care if she had). If she does, I will ask her to shred them so they cease to exist.

I
need to call her.

This
was written for www.yeahwrite.me. Please wander over following this link. You won’t
be disappointed with what you’ll find there!

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

In
a land far, far away enroute to the ruined, Spanish hamlet called Foncebadon
(population 10); I had one of the best days of my life so I stole something to
commemorate it.

Walking
with my closest “Camino” friend, church bells sang just for us (it seemed) at
the stroke of mid-day while crossing an ancient stone bridge; a bar of dark
chocolate shared in the shadow of a steeple. Trees dripped with cherries. The
famously mystical, wild, white dogs basked under benches. Laundry draped sun
drenched lines. Crisp cervezas were sipped while smells of seafood
paella wafted through windows of the albergue. You get it.

With
a glass of vino tinto in my hand at sunset, we walked from a restaurant down
the hill to our hostel and sat on a log gazing blissfully out at pastures and
snowcapped mountains. Interrupting cowbells, I sighed, “I’m keeping this goblet
as a memory of one of the best days of my life.”

It
was the one-year anniversary of my accident.

The
next morning, roosters woke us early, all twenty-five pilgrims sleeping in one
room. And as we sipped our café con leches watching the sunrise, backpacks already
organized, discussing how far we’d walk that day and where we’d sleep, my
friend gently grabbed my elbow.

“I
woke at 1:00 thinking about the goblet,” he said.

“I
thought about it during the night too,” I replied honestly because I had.
Because I wanted it.

He
placed his hands on my shoulders and I’ll never forget what he said.

“This
village is a special place. We both feel it and we are pilgrims. We don’t take
things. It isn’t necessary. We have every memory and they live in our
hearts. No one can take them away. We must leave this village as we found
it. If we don’t, the feeling will be spoiled forever. You must return the goblet before we go on. I will come with you.” (He’s German and very authoritative.)

I
felt like a naughty child being scolded. And I guess I was but he was also
right. I had thought about it too; my sleep suffered from pangs of guilt knowing
I wasn’t behaving like I should.

So
when the sun finished rising, we walked side-by-side down the hill. I gently rested the
goblet against the back door of the restaurant so someone would see it without
accidentally breaking it.

“Do
you feel better?” he asked.

“I
do.” And I did.

I
felt lighter. I felt pure. I felt connected.

We
walked on.

Into a new day's beauty. Into it’s simplicity. Into new memories.

*********************************

Finally getting slowly back in the groove and that means heading back to one of my favorite places! Yeah Write. Some of the best lurking on the web but it's much more fun to participate!

Sunday, September 1, 2013

I am always thrilled to participate in Jana's Sunday Stream of Consciousness. Who doesn't like a five minute brain dump that you don't have to edit? Today I will call it my five minute rant.

I detest feeling frustrated. And I equally detest feeling annoyed. But the feeling I detest even more, whipping both frustration and annoyance into the frothiest mixture of icky feelings, is one in which I feel between a rock and a hard place. It's that dreadful place where you have no choice, or feel as if you don't, because if you exercised your right to make that choice, a certain choice, you would be "the bad guy". Or deemed unreasonable or a bitch or probably even other worse things.

You are asked if something is okay with you; works for you. Do you mind if...?

And the answer is "no"; it's not really okay. It doesn't work for me; I do mind.

But you feel you can't say "no". And you have to do it. Then act like you don't mind if it goes down at all.

You can express how uncomfortable it is for you fully understanding it's going to happen anyway. Because you have no choice but to say "yes".

So you try to put some boundaries on it to make it seem better. And you throw out a "I know other people who would feel the same as me" for good measure. You feel like a heel for even feeling this way at all. And you feel like some sort of brat. But you can't help it because it's just how you feel.